


Fantastically Huge

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A different type of size kink, Agender AU, Body Changes, Breasts, Femlock, Lactation, Medical Examination, Mpreg, Negative Body Image, Other, Pregnancy, both and neither ;), gender-neutral au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-09-26 08:33:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9876740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Mpreg or Femlock in an Agender AU: Sherlock never expected to be the primary parent, and has difficulty adjusting to the many body changes happening during the pregnancy. John loves all of it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlockkinkmeme: Prompt #6, BBC Sherlock/John  
> Iwantthatcoat for soanonymousveryprivate
> 
> Prompt #6: Please, could someone write a fic where John or Sherlock gets impregnated by the other and the story focuses on their changing body? Like how their belly gets bigger and bigger and more taut, their breasts start to fill out and ache, the other aches and pains, stretch marks, and sex where the non pregnant one gets off on the others changing body. Bonus points if you can come up for a reason for it to be more accelerated and sudden then a 9 month pregnancy.

Sherlock woke up nauseated.

Normally, that wouldn't be a reason for concern. Especially for someone who eats every third day and somehow still manages to run all around London. Blood sugar is bound to be a bit low from time to time.

But they had just had sex a few days ago. Aligned sex.

And that can only mean one thing.

Staring at the ceiling in utter disbelief, one thought pushed aside all the others

_It wasn't supposed to be me._

"John?"

John didn't reply.

"John!?!"

Sensing the urgency in the second plea, John rolled over, concerned.

"What is it, love?"

"I feel...unwell."

"I'm sorry. Would you like me to make you some tea?"

"John. Don’t be obtuse. This is day three. And I am nauseated beyond belief."

"It’s way too early to tell."

"Apparently, it isn't."

John rolled back over and sighed. Arguing with Sherlock was nearly always a losing proposition. "Look, I will set up a scan for tomorrow. Just...I need to get some sleep."

"We need a scan as soon as possible."

John mumbled into the pillow, "Fine. I'll bite. And why do we need a scan as soon as possible?"

"Because this zygote thought I would be the better host."

John chuckled and went back to sleep.

Sherlock went back to staring at the ceiling.

****

"Oh, Johhhn. You too. You too this time. Please."

"I'll have my turn. I'm not finished with you yet."

"No. To... together. Together, John. Please, John."

"That-- You don't have a clear head right now."

"We've already discussed it when we both had clear heads. Many times. Let's alignnnn.”

Sherlock drew out the word in a sultry rumble and watched the last of John's hesitation disappear. Careful, though… John should never, even for an instant, feel they had made such an important decision without due consideration, and deserved some form of proof this was not fueled by a lust-driven haze. Admittedly, one or two more sweeping arcs across the outer edge of Sherlock’s epididymis would threaten to remove all coherency, so-- best to address this promptly. “Proof of a clear head: the timing is perfect-- no cases at the moment, Sarah is on holiday right now and upon returning will be wanting extra hours to make up for all that over-spending, cold and flu season has ended and summer holiday injuries have not yet begun. So let’s do it, John. Let's make a child.”

****

The sickness only lasted a day. Most people have symptoms so mild they claim to have never had any at all. Some feel queasy as the hormonal influx preparing them for pregnancy begins. A small percentage end up vomiting all day long, but that is exceedingly rare, because those whose very bodies seem to rebel against pregnancy seldom serve as primary parent. Sherlock was surprised there was only mild nausea. Not severe, but constant.

Once the individual genetic material combines during alignment, either partner could potentially be chosen as primary. Well, "chosen" was the popular parlance. Whether a zygote had that sort of presence of mind-- to actually choose-- was debatable, but the fact remained (although it was far from understood) the partner selected has always been better suited to the task. That parent would carry the foetus, and the role of primary would shift again as the baby was born and required ongoing care beyond the scope of a healthy body in which to develop. That parent would lactate. Some parents swore there was a shift in the primary at every major stage of development, but this was a controversial theory; past infancy, the notion of a primary and secondary parent usually fell out of favor. Sherlock had not expected to be primary until at least the pre-pubescent years… when a more logical parenting style would be an asset. 

Sherlock gave up on the stack of pillows and tried burrowing into the hollow under John’s shoulder instead. John would realise it eventually. Of the two of them, John was in every way superior. Yes, yes, Sherlock was more intelligent, but intelligent enough to know that that was hardly a plus for worldly success. The alienation and sense of inherent superiority was frequently a detriment. Sherlock was younger, too, but only by four years-- hardly statistically significant. On the other end of the balance sheet: maybe "high functioning sociopath" wasn't entirely accurate since obviously there were feelings in there someplace and John was remarkably good at getting them to surface, but Sherlock was far from empathetic. An ectomorph with underdeveloped fast-twitch fibres couldn't hold a candle to a mesomorph with excellent muscle strength and a perfectly-proportioned body. Sherlock was a drug addict. Sherlock was (by the same logic, even after having quit) a smoker. Sherlock didn't particularly like babies, and was always puzzled about that "new baby smell" everyone was so enamoured with which was really merely rash cream and powder. Only a damaged zygote would choose Sherlock over John as primary parent.

If all appeared to be well on the scan it would certainly help put both their minds at ease, and if not…. Sherlock stayed up through the night attempting to determine the correct verbage to help John, should there be a poor prognosis. Though they both wanted a child, John would certainly be the more distraught of the two. 

There was another possibility, albeit a slim one. John may be sick and currently asymptomatic-- though the antibodies would still be detectable in the bloodstream at the moment of conception. Since a pregnancy only lasts two months, the zygote must feel it has a better chance developing in the less healthy parent than in the healthier one fighting off influenza. After the birth, surely there would be a primary shift to remedy the situation. 

Or, maybe John was right. Maybe it was too early to tell, and it was a simple stomach virus. But Sherlock had spent a lifetime intuiting, then observing if the facts confirmed the deduction through careful observation. Intuition had said "pregnant' and the nausea had served to reinforce it. Tomorrow, there would be a final confirmation, followed by the wait for John's inevitable headcold. Best to stock up on tissues; John hated using the loo roll in place of actual facial ones.

****  
Seated at the clinic, for the first time Sherlock wondered what outcome to wish for. All these primaries in various stages of pregnancy were...disconcerting. _If John was right, and this was just an illness, maybe--_

"Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock looked up at the nurse holding a clipboard. "Clean catch urine sample. Room Three for the scan. Paper gown open in front." John frowned. Everything Sherlock liked about this office, John hated. Here, Sherlock was just another in their endless stream of patients doing a confirmation scan. Piss in a cup. Wand over the belly. Immediate results followed by a standard lecture.

The clean catch finished, Sherlock placed the sample in-between the double-shuttered doors above the toilet and headed to Room Three. John was seated in the chair to the right of the exam table. The gown was white with blue stars, tied in the front, and seemed pointless. What was the purpose of providing the false modesty of an open-front gown and a draping blanket made of paper when any minute now someone was going to stick a hand inside you? Sherlock sat down and glared at the paper lining the table which crinkled with every movement.

"Should I leave?" John hesitated.

"Why?"

"Well, you might want...no. Nevermind."

Sherlock sighed and attempted to find the right words. "No, I am not embarrassed by your being here for this, and I think your...support...would be helpful. As well as the fact that, if confirmed, I would anticipate your wanting to have as large a role in this stage of the process as possible." That sounded horrible. And completely untrue. Sherlock didn't want John there. Or Doctor Barlow there. Or anyone there at all right now...and, in fact, wasn’t even sure if the baby was welcome there. But a good front was necessary, and certainly possible with proper effort. _Close your eyes and breathe_. "I'm sorry. What I meant to say was..."

"It's fine. I understand."

Sherlock doubted that.

"No, I really do. You and your body had just come to a sort of truce when I came along, right? You had stopped trying to poison it. Then you acknowledged it had a right to exist apart from being a fancy carrying case for your brain. Then you started feeding it. Then you decided it had the capacity for feeling pleasure. And now that you're friends, it is going to go and change on you."

Sherlock blinked.

John smiled.

"Contrary to popularly-held belief, I am not actually an idiot."

"No. Not even remotely." Sherlock smiled, too, but it was short-lived, as there was a cursory knock on the door followed by its immediate opening.

"Sherlock, my name is Emily." Emily cautiously extended one hand out whilst holding Sherlock's chart with the other. "We don't seem to have any records on file for you in our database...?"

"Did you lose them?"

"Uh. Well there were none in the digital file either. Who was the last physician you saw?"

"Doctor Barlow. In this very office, last year. Perhaps some files were inadvertently deleted when you did your last software update?" Sherlock hit the final consonant hard and coupled that with an intense stare. The nurse's eyes shifted down in self-preservation before glancing over in the direction of the check-in area. "In any case, I am not here for a full exam, I just need a simple external confirmation scan." Sherlock smiled politely.

The technique was only moderately unsuccessful. 

"Doctor Barlow generally does not perform an exam without a record on file. I will see what I can do. In the meantime, I need your blood pressure." Sherlock offered an arm and the nurse wrapped it in the restrictive equipment. "Slightly elevated, but not enough to worry about. Doctor Barlow will be in shortly." Emily left without another word.

"Just for curiosity's sake, Sherlock, when was--"

"I've no idea."

"Right."

"It's completely unnecessary, John. Everything is in working order. It's not as if anything has changed since the last time I was checked. It's still the same body."

"But not for long. Which is why you need the exam. To address any issues before the changes occur."

Sherlock huffed.

"I can check you myself if you'd rather..."

"No thank you."

"Good. Because that would be...odd."

Another useless knock and Doctor Barlow entered the room.

"I've been assured your files are in order, so let's go on ahead with your confirmation scan, shall we?"

Sherlock was about to mutter, 'Yes, _let's,_ ' but in a rare moment of lucidity regarding conversational etiquette, decided perhaps antagonising the person currently preparing to shove a gripping tool into your vagina to forcibly extend your penis past its natural range of motion wasn't a good idea.

"Go ahead and lean back. Heels here and here."

So Doctor Barlow was going to do it anyway. _Not take samples, but a full exam nonetheless. Fine. Fine. No. No, not fine._

"Why not just an external scan and be done with it?"

"Just checking your retraction capability. Measuring the space allotted for foetal growth during your final stages when the uterus shifts forward into the anterior cavity."

Well, that made sense, although if it was overly narrow, there was nothing to be done about it. The foetus would just shove into other organs and take whatever space it needed (like the parasite it was), which would be fairly obvious through an increased protruding of the stomach. This supposedly required monitoring.

At least it was a valid explanation. Sherlock frowned. There was no good reason to protest the check without revealing anxiety over the procedure.

"Ok, now I need to open you up. Deep breath. Relax your muscles."

The dilation tools weren't fun at all. The Holmes family physician-- the last to have done this type of exam, truth be told-- knew Sherlock well and had provided a mirror. That had made it slightly more tolerable and infinitely more interesting, having an internal view: the entry point to the uterus (the uterus itself being too far up to see), how the penis looked as Sherlock made it move forward and backward from its usual resting place just above the cervix, the spongy area with the forgotten name which stored all genetic material. That exam had been relatively brief; a full one wasn’t considered necessary before becoming sexually active. 

Asking for a mirror at this stage of life was childish, but it would have helped considerably. The few minutes of forcible dilation and the accompanying loss of control without a suitable distraction would be short-lived, but would be very unpleasant nonetheless. Sherlock gazed at the ceiling tiles, checking for any unusual markings. Nothing-- just a thin layer of dust.

"Dilator is in place. Okay, now extend your penis." Sherlock pivoted forward. _No gripping, then. Good._ Using a tool to gently pull the penis wasn't painful, the issue was in not being the one to direct the motion. No reason for that particular assessment if Sherlock was already pregnant since achieving complete forward extension was a conception issue-- not related to foetal development at all. "Normal range. Checking side-to-side mobility. Move your penis to your right."

For the first time, Sherlock was indeed embarrassed that John was in the room. Not everyone had a wide range of motion from side-to-side. John didn't, but Sherlock did (and John rather liked that Sherlock did). It was difficult to ignore the fact that John was likely blushing just a bit right now.

"Okay left. Good. Now retract it."

Sherlock moved backward.

"Can you move your penis any farther back?"

Sherlock heard John suddenly shift forward in the plastic chair.

"No."

"Okay. Removing the dilator. Go ahead and sit up."

The next stage of the exam generally took place whilst lying down. Something was wrong.

"Before I perform a scan, I want you to know that your penis does not completely retract. In non-procreative sexual activity, you might occasionally feel this when you are the receiving partner, but as the penis isn't especially sensitive you also might not notice unless your partner makes direct contact with enough force to push it back slightly. Then you'd feel the pressure of backwards movement-- sort of like if I were to use a gripper, but in the other direction. Extension is curtailed during pregnancy. Your body needs the extra space, so the penis fully retracts and stays in that position the entire time. Except yours won’t. Not completely. It might, just a bit more, as the pregnancy progresses, but this generally indicates a narrow growing space for the foetus.

"So I will _show_ more."

"And how will this affect the surrounding organs?" John added.

"Even people born with no retraction capabilities at all, or who lose the ability through injury, can sustain a pregnancy. The foetus will adapt. But there may be more movement as it competes for space, and you will feel pressure against your surrounding organs. Your digestion will be slower. Your bladder will compress. You might experience urinary tract infections-- which is potentially dangerous if they go untreated-- so drink water frequently and be sure to watch your urine output. I'll give you a take-home testing kit. We would need to treat an infection early and aggressively-- long before you begin to feel the traditional symptoms."

_This is bad. This is very bad. Not only is my body going to change, but I am going to have to monitor it. This is more than popping a prenatal vitamin before bedtime. This requires awareness._

"Sherlock?"

John sounded concerned, and the doctor seemed to be waiting for a response. Oh. Sherlock didn't look up. "Could you repeat the question, please?"

"How long ago was alignment?"

"Four days."

Doctor Barlow squeezed some contact jelly onto Sherlock's stomach and rolled a flat-ended probe slowly across, watching the screen.

"Sherlock, John, congratulations! Right here, see?"

John moved closer to the screen and pointed at a blurry shape. "You were absolutely right. God, you were...we're....we're going to have a baby!"

Sherlock peered closer at the screen. Everything looked perfectly normal. "Do you see anything unusual?"

Doctor Barlow smiled. "Not a thing. I’d even go so far as to say that the zygote has chosen an ideal location...the far-end of your uterus maximizes space.” John winked at Sherlock. “Smaller than we usually get to see, but only because you came in much earlier than most couples. How did you know so quickly? Did you feel ill?"

"Yes."

"For how many days?"

"Just the one." 

_This doctor does an exceptionally good job at maintaining neutrality when faced with the reality of just how unsuitable I am. As if the anatomical irregularities aren't enough, there's the sickness._

Sherlock glanced over at a beaming John, and tried to mask the rising anger. 

_Why not acknowledge the elephant in the room? I am going to be terrible at this. John will be angry. No. John will be hurt and question my emotional capacity and maybe even the decision to marry me. And to add insult to injury, I am going to be absolutely huge._


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock felt it before seeing it (in the shower...a definite rounding) and turned off the spray before heading straight to the bathroom mirror. John heard the shower stop. 

"Everything ok? It's not the water heater gone off again is it? I need to--"

"No. The water's fine."

This wasn't going to end up as just a sexy little potbelly, like John would sometimes be just on the verge of getting before switching to skimmed milk and adding a few more sets of exercises to the morning routine--which led to all traces of fat being vanquished and a stunning view of a compactly-muscled frame. John's body knew fitness, and defaulted to it as a natural state-of-being; any weight gained was quickly lost. But if Sherlock gained weight, which was inevitable if John demanded the actual consumption of actual meals, it wouldn't be so quick to go away. Yes, there had been martial arts and fencing at one time, and they had required a certain level of activity, but, regular exercise? Sherlock sighed: why fret about the future when there was ample opportunity to fret about the present. This hormonal shift wasn't helping matters.

John pushed open the door and enveloped a naked Sherlock, who was preoccupied with staring at every lump, bump, and curve in the mirror. 

Sherlock frowned as John's arms wrapped around the tiny, protruding spot from behind. "Oh, I can feel it! I can feel it right here." John smoothed the still-damp skin. "That's....wow." 

Sherlock made eye contact with John's reflection, perplexed. "You're..."

"I'm what? Amazed? You always amaze me. Excited about this? You know I am. I didn't think you'd want to do this with me. I should have known better, because everything is like a new discovery for you, isn't it? But, just... just look at this." John's hands slid across Sherlock's sides and rested on either end, just above the newly-invisible hipbones. "Here." John twisted round and kissed the spot. "And here." Again on the other side. "And it's just starting. I can't wait until next week."

"We should tell people, shouldn't we? Now that we are a bit further along?"

"We should do it together. I didn't want to tell anyone without you. You... haven't said anything to your family yet?"

"I've seldom needed to say anything directly to my family for them to be well aware."

"Point taken."

"You haven't told Harry."

"No. I will, but... I don't want Harry back just because of this." John sighed. "I mean, Harry should know. I _want_ Harry to know. But, I'm not sure what to say, or how to say it. The last time I tried to talk about something this important in my life--"

"Our wedding."

"Yes. Our wedding." John flinched at the memory of their lunch together. "Well, that didn't go over too well." 

"Write a letter. An old-fashioned one. On paper. You can say what you need to say without any fear of manipulation or one-upping or any other passive-aggressive behaviour."

John nodded. "You're right. Just say what I want to. What about your parents? What about Mycroft?"

"Once we have made arrangements to be in the same room together at the same time and it isn't a holiday, Mycroft will know. And once they lay eyes on me, my parents will know. The only person who won't figure it out inside of thirty seconds is Geoffrey Lestrade. Ironic."

"We should tell them first, yeah? Scotland Yard? Tell them we need a break from cases."

Sherlock frowned. "Do we?"

"I thought you suggested this timing specifically so you could easily avoid cases?"

"That was when I..." 

John laughed. "That was when you thought it was going to be me, right? When you thought I'd be carrying our child and you wanted to be around to take care of me."

"....Yes."

"And why does the reverse suddenly not work in your head? Why should I not want to pamper the hell out of you while you are carrying our child?"

"Because I.... It's not that you wouldn't. That part makes perfect sense. It's because without cases, I am--"

"I thought we were well past you believing my feelings for you only went as far as your "utility", as I think you had called it at the time. I know hormonal shifts can bring bouts of insecurity, Sherlock, but, please don't insult me by implying I don't love you for you." John punctuated the sentence with a kiss. "Trouble adjusting to this new role?"

Sherlock hesitated. It would be only two months out of the regular routine...then it would be a triumphant return to The Work. Once John started nursing... and set up a proper home. Until the next primary shift, anyway, and that would be years from now. By then, a young child could conceivably prefer the barely-organised chaos Sherlock seemed to cultivate over John's devotion to solid, regimented structure. An infant needed far more rigidity-- strict sleep and meal schedules-- (which only John could provide) in order to grow up secure and healthy.

"No. No, it's fine."

Then there was that smile, only seen on the rare occasions when John knew something Sherlock didn't.

"What?"

John chuckled. "This baby is going to be too clever for us, Sherlock. We are going to have a hell of a time. I might need advice from your parents on this."

"i wouldn't recommend that."

"Well, I suppose we will work it out ourselves, then. Do you think I should tell Harry that we--"

A buzz from Sherlock's neatly-folded pile of clothing: incoming text.

Sherlock glanced the mobile before handing it to John. "Lestrade. Case. You field it while I get dressed."

"I see. So you want me to just tell Greg now?"

"I wouldn't handle it nearly as well...and it is certainly an opportune moment."

"Fine. I'll...I'll call. Seems more personal."

"Yes. _Greg....?_ will appreciate the personal touch."

"Hi, Greg. Yeah, Sherlock's getting dressed. Um, sorry, but we can't take the case. We've... we were about to come down and tell you this in person, but...we're pregnant. Sherlock and I are going to have a baby--Thank you, thank you!-- We confirmed it last week. So, as much as we would love to, there are some physical adjustments in this early stage we have to get a handle on first before we-- Yes, exactly.-- No, not yet, but that's coming soon, I'm sure. I knew you'd understand-- Yeah, sounds right up Sherlock's street, but-- No. No, you see _that_ won't work, because the one who would be grabbing a few things on the way back home would be _me_. Sherlock is the primary. So, while I like to think I have picked up a thing or two about crime scenes over the years, I don't think my skills are what you need, exactly.-- Greg?-- It's fine.-- Not nearly as much, no.-- Okay.-- No, we are good for now, but thanks.-- No, not at all, that would, uh, actually help a lot.-- Seriously though, don't worry about it, neither did Sherlock.-- Yes, I will. Bye."

"Sherlock, Greg will let everyone know, so we don't have to go down there."

Sherlock headed back into the bathroom, impeccably dressed. "And offered to bring us anything we need. You'd think I can't follow a simple phone conversation, John."

John stared at the floor. 

"Yes, and I also heard you say 'neither did Sherlock', and you shouldn't feel so guilty about speaking the absolute truth. You know no one expected this. Would _ever_ expect it."

"Mrs Hudson asked."

"Mrs Hudson was being polite. Which utterly disgusting symptom did Lestrade ask you about?"

"Not so disgusting. Heightened sense of smell."

"You _think_ it isn't disgusting."

"How is an increased sense of smell disgusting?"

"It's not the sense in-and-of-itself. It's what happens when you can't filter odors out and the intensity makes you want to retch."

"I take it this has occurred already."

"This morning. In the shower. Your deodorant soap has got to go."


	3. Chapter 3

"You are rounded, Sherlock. You know I love how your hip bones jut out and make those wonderful peaks and hollows. How I love to suck on them when I run my fingers... just inside...?" Sherlock nodded, unable to speak. That body was gone now. It made Sherlock long for John's touch and long even more for what was missing in this new one. "This is the same thing. Except now you have all these beautiful new shapes. I want to run my tongue along the edges and map all your contours. The new shape of you."

John found this new body attractive. There was no questioning that fact. But why? Sherlock could only think of one reason. Variety. John was right, of course. This was like the body of an entirely new person, wasn't it? John could almost imagine this was someone else, during these moments. Sherlock suddenly fought the urge to push John away. But it would be fine. Sherlock had no right to feel upset about any subconscious thoughts running through John's mind. 

"You are so beautiful like this, Sherlock."

A revision to the prevailing theory-- there was too much direct address for it to hold true. Though John didn't call Sherlock by name quite so often as to create a sense of overcompensation, it was certainly enough times to make it exceedingly difficult for John to have been fantasizing about someone else the entire time. Perhaps it was related to possession. John had created this new physical state. They actually both had, of course, but in a sense it was John's doing, this transformation from Sherlock Holmes to-- something different. A storage mechanism. A vessel. John and this foetus has conspired to take over. That degree of control was surely an aphrodisiac.

"I understand it's an adjustment, these changes, and I would never ask anything of you until you feel more at ease, but... would it... can I just kiss you a bit, and hold you?" 

Sherlock nodded. It would have been fine to have asked for far more. Maybe John just felt awkward, being too sexual in what was now shared space. Though the foetus was quite high up, it was still potentially awkward. Besides, Sherlock was truly exhausted. Dreams were odd now, and sometimes disturbing. And there was the need for frequent urination as well. A good night's sleep was becoming a rare thing.

 

***

John came in with a large package. "I take it you ordered this? From Bum Wraps?"

"Finally! Yes, they are new pocket liners. I need to show you my nappy index."

"Nappy..index? Different styles of nappies?"

"Styles? Why would one categorise by style? By absorbency, of course! I have made a study of the absorbency rate of various textiles. Hemp is slightly more porous than cotton, but the cotton ones wick better, since the material is thicker. Cotton is by far superior for urine. The anti-wicking properties of fleece make it more stain resistant, so more practical for semi-solid waste, once we are past the meconium stage, anyway. That would ruin anything it comes into contact with. Do be careful to not disturb the sequencing." 

Sherlock picked up a nappie shell from one pile and a folded bit of cloth from another into the center, snapping it into place. "The new pocket liners will have fleece inside and outside. The cotton goes in the middle, through a slit in the back. In theory, the pressure from the urine stream pushes through the inner layer of fleece and is absorbed by the cotton located within the pocket. When it is wet, you simply reach into the back and pull the dampened fabric out and replace it. The inside would theoretically stay quite dry. No rash. I don't want our baby to smell like rash ointment, John. But I doubt their claim that the stream is strong enough to go through the fabric. I'll have to test it."

John stared at Sherlock. "You're not going to...wear them...are you?"

"Well, I'd been planing on using a modified pipette, but--" Sherlock looked mischievously at John, "I could always wear one. If you wanted me to?"

"Ah. There it is."

"There what is?"

"The beginning of month two. When everything is sex-addled."

There might be something to that, the hormonal settling, starting at the commencement of month number two. Half-way through. Sherlock could handle this...was getting good at it, even. And there was a new purpose to this body thing: to nurture another human being. It was just like mastering a piece on the violin after working at it for days, then weeks, and then suddenly your fingers just knew what to do and where to go. This pregnancy thing wasn't all that difficult, if you just went along with it and observed the changes. Embraced them. 

Hungry? Eat. Who cares what "they" tell you to consume or not. John's advice was quite straightforward: follow your cravings, drink a lot of water, and have a daily vitamin. There were pregnant people from other cultures around the world happily and safely eating foods they "shouldn't". Some were actually enjoyable to eat...like berries in Greek yoghurt, drizzled with erroneously-forbidden honey. Sherlock was even enjoying this aspect of self-care, eating that particular lunch beside the toasty fire. The warmth, comfort, and security felt-- good. 

Reading by the fire seemed appropriate, and Sherlock looked toward the bookcase. Sitting high on the shelf, its bright yellow cover standing out from the rest, was a childhood staple, "Polly and the Wolf Again". Why had it been kept, tucked away all these years? Still, Sherlock felt nothing but gratitude that a fond childhood memory remained within easy reach, and took it down from the shelf.

John came in to clear the tray, and saw Sherlock with what could only have been a sentimental favourite. 

"'Polly and the Wolf Again'", said Sherlock.

"I assume it is a sequel to 'Polly and the Wolf'?"

"The proper title of the first work in the series is 'Clever Polly and the Stupid Wolf'."

"Never heard of either one."

"A true classic in children's literature. Would you like to hear some selected vignettes?"

John stretched out and hummed in the affirmative. 

"The premise is self-explanatory." Sherlock opened to the middle of the book and began reading all about the wolf's various unsuccessful attempts to eat Polly.

"'Look at me, Polly,' read Sherlock. 'I'm looking,' said Polly. 'Look at me, Polly'," Sherlock's voice grew deeper. "'I'm still looking.' 'Look at me, Polly'." Polly wasn't affected at all by the wolf's steadily lowering, rumbling tone, but John certainly seemed to be. 

"Polly doesn't get hypnotised, right? That's... a bit frightening. For a children's story."

"All good children's stories have frightening elements. It's healthy to overcome fear. We attempt to sanitise a child's world... to pretend that if we never bring anything up, then children won't have fears, when what we _should_ be doing is teaching them how to conquer them."

"And how does Polly help with that?"

"Well, Polly always wins. Because Polly is clever, and the wolf is stupid."

"I see. I'm beginning to see how the stories you tell your children shape their psychological development, all right."

Sherlock ignored the jibe. "And here's the best part... Polly unintentionally hypnotizes the wolf. Let me just... here it is!"

"'Oh, Wolf,' Polly cried. 'I see! You're the one who got hypnotised, because you would insist on looking at the sun. All right, now I'll tell you what to do. Go home, Wolf, and have a nice vegetarian lunch-- some biscuits and cheese and a lightly-boiled egg.'" John smiled. "'And then go to bed and have a long, long sleep and when you wake up you'll feel very much refreshed and very obliging and not at all hungry. And don't ever come and try to eat me up again, do you understand? Never, never, never.'" Sherlock looked a bit anxious. "'This is where I was devastated the first time I heard it, John. I _liked_ how Polly always beat the wolf. That would mean the end of the stories, wouldn't it? And I thought that my parents were making this part up at first, but then I was finally able to read it myself. This is what makes this book so special. The author understands the problem of victory." Sherlock's impossibly long legs stretched out until they were touching John's. "'Never'," repeated the wolf, sounding so sad that Polly, who really quite enjoyed having a wolf around to get the better of, said relentingly: 'Well, not for a long time. And I'm clever, and you're stupid, remember that.' 'I'm clever and you're stupid,' repeated the wolf dreamily. And left, leaving Clever Polly wondering what the wolf would be like next time."

"That was a lovely little bedtime story. Can I tuck you in?"

Sherlock nodded. Pleasant as the day was, it was still physically demanding. Proper rest sounded like a very good idea.

****

 

The Great Sherlock-Sherlock's Body Truce was short-lived. 

Awakening was painful, and rolling over only part-way did nothing to alleviate the spinal pressure. Something was pinching a nerve, perhaps. Maybe standing up straight....

Sherlock tried to lean forward, arms bracing the nightstand, and knocked John's alarm clock to the floor. "Fuck!" John came running.

"What ha-- oh. Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay! I can't stay awake and I can't go to sleep and I feel like I need to pee but when I'm there I don't have to, it's just pressing on... the pregnant human body is the stupidest design ever conceived, except it wasn't conceived by anyone or anything it just..." Sherlock took a few deep breaths. "It refutes any sense of grand design, John. There is simply no way to be anything remotely close to comfortable."

"How about a hot bath? Soothe your muscles? The water will hold you up just a bit?"

Sherlock sank into the warm bath, the water providing gentle support. The slight floating, weightless sensation was a nice counterpoint to feeling so tremendously burdened. Pretending everything had returned to its normal size for a few minutes, Sherlock's eyes drifted closed.

"I'll check back on you in a little while. Give you some alone time."

"i never have _alone_ time," Sherlock snapped.

John left without any additional comment.

Eventually, Sherlock's sloshing in a failed attempt at extrication brought John back. Once out of the tub and wrapped in a warm towel John had placed by the heater, Sherlock returned to the mirror, as usual. John stepped in front of the reflection. 

"Mmmmm. Your skin is stretched so tightly, so sensitive to touch..." John's fingers slid delicately across where Sherlock's waist had once been. John was right. The stretched skin felt entirely different, far more responsive. There were less nerve endings per square centimetre now, but pulled tight, the epidermis seemed to vibrate from the drag of John's fingers as they continued upward, tracing just above Sherlock's hip. The fingers were soon replaced by a warm, wet tongue, and then by the suction of John's lips. "Can we go to bed? Because I really, really want to lay you down and... oh God, Sherlock, do I want to touch you."

John walked Sherlock back to their bedroom. Sherlock's gait was definitely odd now...side to side, and getting this precariously-balanced form into bed took some manouevering. Then John noticed it-- how Sherlock's nipples were darkening. Not surprising...John paid far more attention to them than Sherlock did. There were tiny, blue veins visible where there were none before. "Do you feel sensitive?"

"What?"

"Here..." John came in close to Sherlock's left nipple and lingered a moment, looking at it, watching the reaction to the simple closeness itself.

"John, you can't possibly be suggesting that I'm going to be the..." 

John ghosted breath over the peaked surface. "Try and tell me they aren't."

Sherlock blushed. Either of them finding any sensual pleasures in this rapidly-changing body had seemed impossible, but John's attraction had never waned. Quite the opposite. Sherlock had run through many theories, but it was becoming clear John's interest was piqued by the changes themselves. And Sherlock was finding this body was full of unusual types of... rewards. The thought of dripping colostrum, and eventually milk, was hardly something Sherlock had given a moment's thought to ever happening but, now that it seemed imminent, John clearly found it not just medically fascinating, but somehow erotic? It made no sense. For Sherlock, the fact that breasts had a practical purpose, to nurture a child, made them tolerable. But to John... John was taking such delight in their emergence. 

Sherlock arched backward as John licked across them. "Oh, but I see they are, Sherlock. And that means by tomorrow they will start to swell. Montgomery’s tubercles, colostrum. I bet I can make you release it. A certain percentage of primary's nipples become extra-sensitive during sex-- should we test this out?"

This time, Sherlock nodded eagerly.


	4. Chapter 4

During the end of the month checkup, the technician explained what was on the viewing screen. The baby was approximately 15 inches long, and--

"I can feel the top of the fundus...right here. That would mean the baby is slightly over 17 inches in length," Sherlock interrupted. 

The lab tech swallowed nervously. "Well, the measurements based on the digital imagery would indicate..."

"I can feel the exact point where heel meets small intestine, and just this week my breathing has been affected, so the baby is clearly making its way up against the bottom portion of my lungs." _Idiot._

Sherlock didn't regret the correction. After all, _whose body_ was it _in_ the digital imagery? John could always be counted on to be the diplomatic one. Indeed, John turned first to the tech, and then directed the end of the conversation to Sherlock. "It is difficult to get a good reading through the ribcage. And all that compressed intestine may be what's pushing against your lungs."

"Kicking, John. I can feel the difference between something pushing into something else as a chain reaction of misplaced organs and a weak kick due to a lack of available space for a full range of motion."

"I don't doubt it." John turned to the tech again. "So... no issues?"

"Not... not that I can see from this viewpoint, Doctor," came the nervous reply.

"I'm not an obstetrician. I'm sure you can read a scan better than me," John peered at the hanging identification badge, "Jeremiah."

Jeremiah blushed, and then decided it was a good idea to acknowledge the comment with a small nod. "I'm just a tech, but, there are notes about--", Jeremiah turned toward Sherlock, still somewhat intimidated, "blood pressure and such. Everything is fine as far as the baby is concerned, but there may still be issues to...discuss." 

Sherlock headed back to the examination table and prepared for whatever bad news Dr Barlow had waiting for them.

**

Sherlock did not like being on bedrest one bit. Even with John providing a steady supply of cold cases, it did little to prevent the slide into despair.

"i still don't see why we can't..."

"Because your blood pressure is already too high and you are at high risk for preterm labour given the length of the baby and the deficit of available space, that's why. Those muscles need to keep still."

"I'm not saying penetrative sex, John. Just... surely we could--"

"Look. Medically speaking...bed rest is pelvic rest, in your situation. If you go into labour early it is a Bad Thing. And being a Bad Thing, we need to avoid it for a couple of weeks. You'll be fine. I'll be fine. No trips to Emergency. Keep your blood pressure low. We advise patients who are way past their due date to _have_ sex for a reason. It works well. So. No sex."

"If the point is to keep my blood pressure low, not doing anything except lying here and becoming progressively more upset about this whole situation is counterproductive."

"Agreed."

"Good. So, permission granted to go out on a case-- if I take it easy?" It wouldn't work. But at least John would get some barometer for how utterly miserable Sherlock truly felt.

"Nope."

"What then?!"

"Look, I know this isn't fun. Give me your right foot."

Sherlock rather unceremoniously plunked it into John's lap.

"Fine. Be that way."

John began by rubbing a thumb along Sherlock's inner arch. It felt, good-- relaxing instead of stimulating. Warm and comfortable. John continued making firmer strokes against the tendon. "Ok, other one now." It really did feel quite nice.

"Now on your side, since on your stomach is pretty much physically impossible." Strong hands made for persistent pressure along Sherlock's calves, which were already stiff from disuse. John spent a long time on Sherlock's lower back, tracing tight circles around each individual vertebrae. "Just relax into it." 

Sherlock did. It was a simple thing, the touch. Nothing too elaborate. Just reassuring and steady-- slowly, patiently working out a chain of tightly-knotted muscles. 

Sherlock swallowed.

"John? John, I--"

"Softer? Am I hurting you?" John stopped, than returned to the massage. "Just so you know, arousal is fine if it happens, but only to a point. We just don't want to take it very far." 

"For you?"

"Not interested at the moment." 

John's hands moved higher, against the latissimus dorsi now. Sherlock tried to ease into the touch and hoped whatever the feeling was which seemed to arrive out of nowhere-- as overwhelming as it was indiscernible-- would pass. _Please don't let this be what the onset of early labour feels like._

John moved to the sternocledomicoid. "SCM's are tight. You might need a flatter pillow. I'll pick up one with more down and less feathers." And that was it. Maybe it was the simple offer of caretaking. Maybe it was the acknowledgment that Sherlock was hurting, which had made further denial an impossibility. In any case, it was that precise moment when whatever feeling it was, hidden deep within the muscles themselves until it was eased out along with all the knots, decided to make an appearance. Sherlock let out a huff of air followed by a quick sniff. John paused at the sound, but just kept going slowly. "It's fine. It happens. Let it out."

Sherlock sniffed again and tensed. "No. It's stupid. It's a stupid reaction and it has no reason to have formed. All it is is tensing and relaxing knotted muscle fibres and there's no justification for my reacting like this."

"Doesn't have to be a reason."

"Yes, there does. Hormonal imbalances-- frustrating." Sherlock was back in control again and slid a hand over John's as it traversed from neck to shoulders. _Just when things were finally going well, leave it to my treacherous body to rebel._

"That they are...and... adjusting to how this all feels is frustrating, too. And I'm sorry."

More emotions. Sherlock was unable to hold them all back this time, and shook a bit as a few tears made their triumphant path down-- having won the battle.

"Why? Don't be. You aren't doing anything wrong. It's just these blasted--"

"It's just that you clearly don't get enough non-sexual touch. I mean, sex, yes, sure...great! But that is different than...this. You don't know how to process just this." John cuddled up from behind, smoothing Sherlock's chest, when John's hands suddenly grazed against too hot skin and Sherlock winced. 

"Sherlock, how long has this been going on? You're all red, here. Inflammation-- probably a clogged duct or something."

"What's the difference. I can't take anything to fix it. I need to just ignore it until it goes away. It's just, what bodies do-- malfunction. Once I'm past this state and back to normal..."

"It can be helped a bit, though. And they could become infected."

"They're not."

"No. Just clogged, but..."

Sherlock frowned. "My body is a liability, John. It has always been such."

"Your body is beautiful, Sherlock."

"Yes. Well. Some people seem to like it, and fortunately for me you are one of them. And, you seem to like it in entirely different forms. Which is...interesting."

"You were going to ride it out."

"Of course."

"And not even mention that it hurt."

"A lot of things hurt, John. Minor inconveniences. It's not like it requires care. If my breast tissue or milk ducts were infected, I would speak up."

"Not the point. The point is you are are uncomfortable and not saying anything."

"Problem?"

"I...yes. No. Not really, but. I think, by now, we have shared quite a lot. So why not this?"

"I don't just sit there and suffer. I do something else and I ignore it. I ignore all these little annoyances. I mean yes, I eat. I need to eat. And I shower daily as part of a fixed routine. I pick out the same types of clothing that I already know work for me, so I don't need to worry about that at all. Long ago, it all became habit instead of conscious thought. I didn't have to concern myself with... maintenance."

"But this forces you into conscious thought."

"Well, a bit. When my mind is occupied with cases I don't have to think about my body at all. Lying here now, Doing absolutely nothing.... I don't dislike my body. It's useful at times. It's strong and healthy and it is capable of... well it's capable of _this._ This is a rather amazing thing I can do with it. And of course sex is a good thing which requires a body. Bonding, physical pleasure, emotional expression. Useful things...enjoyable things."

"Good. That they are...enjoyable things."

"I'm not a ascete, John." Sherlock ran a sultry finger across John's chest.

"No. But you are far less of a hedonist than most would suspect," John smiled, pleased with this exclusive bit of Sherlockania. "Compresses, baths, massage. They will all help. I suggest you take me up on it. The help, that is. I understand the not asking, but now that I know, not allowing me to do anything to help is, almost an insult."

"It was not my intention to--“

John cut off the explanation. "Nope. Irrelevant. Now wait right there while I run you a bath." John headed to the bathroom, and "Hah! As if you are going anywhere!" carried back to where Sherlock was trapped in bed.

"Very funny."

"I thought so."

Minutes later, Sherlock was filling out the tub and looking put upon.

"Give it time. A good soak isn't an instant kind of thing."

"Do I get bubbles?" Sherlock smirked.

"Actually, no."

Sherlock shifted up with great effort. "I have no intention of using them, but are you, in fact, denying me bubbles?"

"Yes. Overly sensitive uro-genital system, prone to infection."

"If I weren't married to a doctor, I would be enjoying a bubble bath right now."

"If you weren't married to a doctor, you'd be wincing in pain in the bed, a prime example of  
stoicism gone wrong. It feels better, doesn't it?"

Sherlock sunk beneath the waterline. It did, in fact, feel much better.

"See, I told you that we are gonna have a hell of a time staying one step ahead of our kid."

Well, that made no sense. What did having a precocious, intelligent child have to do with feeling better now?

"You don't see it, do you? Why do you think you were chosen instead of me?"

"I've no idea."

"Because you were the best choice. Ever wonder why?"

"Continually." _Ah..._ "But you are about to tell me something about opportunistic life lessons regarding self-image and body positivity, are you not?"

"I would, but zygotes don't really make rational decisions, now, do they, Sherlock?"

"Of course not. Impossible."

Looking down, all of Sherlock's lower body was blocked from view-- the existence of anything below the waist was entirely theoretical. _So you think you have something to teach me, do you?_ Sherlock thought, gazing at the fantastically huge protrusion. _All right. I'm listening._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there!  
> Did you notice I didn't use any gendered pronouns or plural-as-singular in this fic?  
> I kinda hope you didn't.  
> But I'm really proud of that and felt it was worth bringing to your attention.


End file.
